


Tuesday. Noodles.

by mintwitch



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 22:49:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintwitch/pseuds/mintwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Food porn. Well, not really, but almost. If you turn your head and squint. Another from the archives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuesday. Noodles.

**Author's Note:**

> All characters and situations from Queer as Folk are properties of Russell T. Davies, Ron Cowen and Daniel Lipman, Showtime, and others. No copyright infringement is intended.

"Hey." Brian's voice falls into the pause between the opening and closing of the loft door, wind between cracks of thunder. Justin turns, greeting the back of his head.  
  
"Hey yourself." Messenger bag in one direction, feet in another, arms and legs dragged in their wake, Justin wobbles in the center of his own orbit, distracted by a list of things he can't quite remember. There's fuzzy gray moss creeping in his peripheral vision, and somewhere in his hindbrain his seventeen year old arch-nemesis is babbling about exhaustion causing visual and aural hallucinations, and then, of course, drugs, because drugs involved about one-third of his total brain capacity at the age of seventeen, in one way or another.  
  
It amuses Justin to think back and chart his mental landscape. The path from DARE poster-boy to popper-huffing twink is twisty but short, and didn't involve so much as a Mr. Yuck sticker, much less gateway drugs, unless one counts baby aspirin, and even those give him a stomach-ache. The guys in white coats should quit studying finger-length and turn their attention to psycho-actives: Justin is pretty sure that if there's a genetic marker for being gay it has something to do with E.  
  
And yeah, he's raving, to himself no less. If he's lucky, maybe he'll fall over next.  
  
The internal clock that ticks away in Brian's brain apparently rings the "Justin's been quiet too long" bell, and the tidy, bronzed curve of skull and Roman profile casually pivots, trailing chopsticks and vague concern. The chopsticks capture Justin's gaze and lure him forward, past the questioning eyes that turn amused as he lands, and it's a relief to not have to think about shit like this anymore, to just surf across Brian's body like home plate and steal his Phad Thai.  
  
The third of Justin's brain that is still entirely occupied with food erupts into a Hallelujah chorus, and Brian's wise enough to surrender the noodles in favor of keeping his arm.   
  
Brian is intimately familiar with Justin in starving -possibly rabid- wolverine mode. He might not admit to remembering being Justin's age, but there are reasons upon reasons that he'd never doubted Jennifer about how much Justin ate, some that it wouldn't be kind to mention. He saves certain particular reasons against the next time she gives him a hard time about her son, has been saving them since the last time, and the time before that, tells himself he simply hasn't needed to pull out those particular weapons, yet. Or doesn't tell himself anything at all. Sometimes, Brian doesn't even know what he's thinking.  
  
What he does know is sprawled across his lap, carbo-loading with his fingers, eyes barely open. The tick-tick he's heard since Gus was born counts off the seconds and minutes, is timed to the flutter of Justin's eyelashes, Gus's pulse, the muscles working in Brian's jaw.  
  
Tick-tick-tick and like clockwork the white carton falls from greasy fingers and Justin's head lolls back. Brian rolls up off the sofa, dragging Justin upright with him.   
  
"Okay, time for your bath, and then bed, little boy." He starts to strip Justin as he walks them towards the bathroom, and Justin bats irritably at him.  
  
"Fuck, Brian, don't say that." Justin shudders. "That's just... creepy."  
  
"What?" And Brian knows better than to try for innocent, but he does clueless fairly well.  
  
"You know what. Infantilization is one kink we do not need, okay? Just, no."  
  
Or not. "Okay, then-- it's time for me to drag you into the shower, fuck you blind, and then nail you to the mattress. Better?"  
  
Justin stumbles, jeans sliding down his legs before Brian's busy hands, and grins. "Yeah. Better."


End file.
